Dear Courtroom Rival
by The Lesbian Gavinners
Summary: Tormented by recent events, Klavier and Apollo both independently attempt a therapeutic exercise. It's simple: they just have to write down the things they could never bring themselves to say aloud, record their most honest feelings in letters to each other that they'll never send. Turns out that their most honest feelings are more than either expected.


**hey guys! I actually have a useful AN this time. Imagine that.**

 **So in the original word document, I completely abused the crossed out line feature to go with the theme of this oneshot, but it won't transfer into the thing. So anything in the letters that is parenthesized was crossed out in the original, and should be read as such. also, the (x)s are time skips. thanks!**

* * *

Dear Herr Forehead,

It has been a week since I saw you last, and I want you to know that I took your advice. I started therapy.

It's almost ironic. For all of _our_ discussions about therapy, in therapy I discuss _you_ most often, Herr Forehead.

I can only wonder why.

I have been told that I have a lot of conflicting feelings about you. I struggle to understand you, Herr Forehead. You are a mystery to me. You are too much for me, in all of my simplicity, to understand.

My therapist thinks that part of the reason why I am so (broken) (stupid) (damaged) lost is because I don't know what to feel. This is true.

I _don't_ know how I feel about you.

She suggested that I write all of my emotions out, that I try and order my turbulent thoughts. I'm not always able to explain it aloud; keep my voice from cracking long enough to tell the truth.

She also says that I don't have to send these letters, so I never will. My imagination will have to suffice on this count.

I must tell you, Herr Forehead, that I, a professional lyricist, didn't think that this would be hard. Too easy, I thought with a twirl of my pen. I have written ballads that moved men to tears. I have _invented_ thoughts I've never had, fake personal lyrics more real than any true thing I could ever say.

It's because my own thoughts are hard, Herr Forehead. They don't feel real. I don't want to plunge into my own head, to try and parse the crippling pain I find there. I'd rather let it fester; forget it long enough to destroy myself.

Write down what you feel, my therapist says. I don't know what I feel.

I think I am sorry, Herr Forehead. I am sorry that you had to fix my life for me. I am sorry that you had to catch the murderers around me, that you had to save me from myself. I am sorry that I am _stupid_ while you are not. I am sorry for all you had to do, all for nothing.

I am sorry that I am too overbearing, Herr Forehead, that I take up your space and go too far. I know that I flirt with everything that moves, that I ignore your unspoken pleas for space. I never learned self-restraint, Herr Forehead; I have been taught that everything in the world is mine. It is no excuse, but I want you to know.

I know that you don't care for me. I know that I should leave you alone, because you are embarrassed by me. You hate my ego. My stubborn insistence. My _stupidity._ You don't care for me, because who would?

(I am nothing.)

I know that you hate me, and ordinarily, I would not mind. I am a rock god. I should not _care_ what you feel. I certainly haven't with others in the past, and for that, I deserve every wrong in the world.

But you, Herr Forehead, you… are something else entirely.

You, Herr Forehead, I (care about) value in ways I cannot explain.

You, Herr Forehead, are named after a god, and you think it tacky and inappropriate. You hate your name, you think you are unworthy. It is stupid, to you, and that… that is a tragedy.

You don't know how perfect you truly are, how _worthy_ you are. You _are_ a god, in your ringing laugh, your soft hands and your fiery passion. How can I stay away? I am a moth to a flame, drawn to your simple perfection.

I suppose that's the crux of it. You are perfect, but you don't know it. You are perfect, but you don't believe me when I tell you. You are perfect, and you hate me, in all of my flaws.

I am already a burden to you. You already fixed _so much_ of me, and it is more than enough, Herr Forehead. It isn't as though I _deserve_ to be saved- least of all by you.

You are perfect, but I am not. You are perfect and I am not, so I cannot taint you. I am not worthy of you, Herr Forehead, so I must admire from afar.

Sincerely, (Prosecutor Gavin)

 _Klavier_

(X)

Dear (Prosecutor Gavin) Klavier

I can call you Klavier, right? I mean, I'm never actually going to send this, so I don't think it matters. Prosecutor Gavin is really formal. And… it reminds me of Kristoph. So, uh, I'll just call you Klavier, if that's alright with you.

I mean, it's not like you're ever actually getting this. I'm never gonna send this or any others that might come. It's just a therapeutic exercise, you know? Nothing super important. So really, I'm just pretending to be talking to you.

Damn it, this is just getting awkward. I guess I should come out and say it.

I'm worried about you. I really and honestly am, Klavier, from the bottom of my heart. Everything's been really hard on you lately, and (it's all my fault) I want to help. I mean, none of this would have happened without me, right? So I should help. I _can_ help, and I want to.

You… you always look so _sad,_ Klavier. Well, you don't _look_ sad, you don't let anybody see it. You always tilt your head so your expression is hidden, or cover it with your hands. And when you're not physically hiding your feelings, you're smiling. It's hollow, Klavier. I don't know how many people it fools, but not me. I know that you're sad, even if you don't want to admit it.

It hurts.

I don't want you sad, I don't want you hurt, I don't- fuck, I just don't want for you to feel like you have to hide. All you have to do is talk to me, Klavier. I'm here for you.

And I'm _not_ just saying this because your problems are all my fault, got it? I like you. You're a good person, Klavier, and you went through a lot lately. And even through all that, you're still great! I mean, you're kind, and honest, and funny, (and gorgeous as hell). I love your (eyes) laugh, that teasing one you always have when I start blushing. It's nice because it feels real, Klavier. It's nice because I know it's you in there.

I don't want to lose that, but I feel like I am. I don't want to lose _you_ , Klavier.

-Apollo Justice

(X)

Dear Herr Forehead,

It's been a month since that trial. A month since I saw you last.

I wonder, have you changed? Are you the same man, Herr Forehead? You _changed_ so irreversibly in the short time that I knew you, and I cannot help but wonder if it is finally over. It should be. You have been hurt, broken beyond repair.

I _hate_ that.

My last letter was selfish, and I apologize. I know that you have been hurt too, and (I don't matter as much as you do) I am sorry. I am sorry that you ever had to be hurt; that you even know what pain is like. You are perfect, Herr Forehead. You shouldn't have to know.

I can't help but think that your pain is my fault. You would tell me it isn't, but we both know the truth. I am the one who _allowed_ everyone around me to reach this point. I am the one who allowed Kristoph to hurt you.

Why didn't I see it, Herr Forehead? You could. You saw what they were really like, both of them. You read between the lines and found the truth. I told you then that I only value the truth, but what have _I_ done?

You fixed everything, but I should have fixed it long ago, so you never had to see it. For this, I am sorry.

I told you that I try to keep myself simple inside. I told you that the world is complex enough; Herr Forehead, and that I don't need to be.

But… Herr Forehead, I _can't._ I can't even follow my own law. I am too complex to simplify, so complex that I have to write down my feelings just to get by.

(Well, I guess I don't _have_ to. After all, what does the world need with me? Who would miss me? Not you, Herr Forehead. Not anyone.)

I have had enough time to write it all down, after all. I have been on leave lately. Miles Edgeworth insists. I may not deserve a break, but I have one now. I have more time now.

Herr Forehead, I have come to the conclusion that there is too much time in the world.

As a younger man, I disagreed. _There is not enough time,_ I thought. _Not enough time to change the world, to save it, to become more than I already am._

I was an egotistical man, Herr Forehead. (I still am.)

Time, Herr Forehead, is one of those things that becomes meaningless once you have it. Now there is too much to think about, too much filling the silence. Now, I want nothing more than to be busy. I want to have an excuse to forget these things, the things I can't help but know.

I hope that you are well, Herr Forehead. I hope that your life improves.

I hope that one day, you can forget Kristoph (and me).

Klavier

(X)

Dear Klavier,

It's been a month since the Misham Trial, so I went to see Kristoph.

It's kinda funny, because he hasn't changed a bit. Weird, huh? I mean, with that crazy freak-out, you'd think he'd lost it. But he hasn't. He's still all intimidating and creepy.

I'm not entirely sure why I went, either. I mean, he just insulted me and all. Not anything outside of my expectations. I'm an embarrassment to him, apparently. I sicken him.

But knowing that is… actually _comforting_ , in a weird way. I'm glad that he hates me, because if someone like _Kristoph_ hates me, then that means that I must be doing something right.

I'm sorry that you had to deal with him for years. I can't imagine having to stand up to him as a child, or even just trying _not to believe him_ as a child. He's horribly convincing, when you're not prepared for it.

(Please don't believe him anymore, Klavier. Don't listen to him. He's just trying to hurt you.)

I haven't seen you in awhile, Klavier. I asked Mr. Edgeworth about you when he was over to see Mr. Wright, and he said that he made you take a leave. I think I agree. I mean, you work really hard- who takes 3 cases at once, anyways?! You need to sleep or something. Relax, get a hobby. Maybe write a song. You like music, right?

(Well of course. You _are_ a world famous rockstar.)

Ugh, that came out of nowhere. I guess it's on my mind, because I've been listening to some of your music lately. It's not my choice or anything, Trucy likes to blare it around the office! But… uh… I have a confession.

It's not _that_ bad.

With volume control, that is. I mean, some of this stuff is really sweet. I've always liked the Guitar's Serenade. And Guilty Love…

Yeah, about that, why didn't you tell me that you mentioned me in your song?! You wrote a whole song with me in it! I was a constant recurring character in a world famous song, and no one told me! And it's… it's… uh, it's really…

 _Nice._

Yeah, I said it. Wrote it. Whatever.

That song you wrote about skipping out on dates to spend time with me… I don't know if I'm reading too deep into it, but, uh, it's really nice.

(I wouldn't mind going on a date with you, you know?)

Well, I suppose we're neck deep in my wishful thinking now. I mean, listening to the song makes me feel special, in a way- because it's about me. It's _me_ you're skipping the dates for, unimportant regular guy Apollo Justice.

I know that you meant that you were going to court, and that I'm just mentioned because I'm your rival. I know I'm being stupid. I'm not special, after all, you flirt with _everyone._ And why the hell would _you_ want _me_ , anyways? I'm really plain and unremarkable. I mean, I'm short, I'm not smart like you, I can't sing, and I have dirt colored brown hair and eyes. And you're… you're tall, with long legs, and you're _brilliant-_ you started prosecuting when you were _17_ , the same year you became _world-famous,_ and you can sing with perfect pitch, and you have that long shiny hair and blue eyes. I can't even _look_ at you without my heart skipping a beat.

Fuck, this is starting to sound like one of your stupid songs.

(Songs that I like to pretend are being sung to me.)

This is all just stupid. You'll never see this anyways. I'm being stupid.I should just stop.

-Apollo

(X)

Dear Herr Forehead,

I saw my brother today. He says that you have visited him, too. I can't help but feel upset when I am thinking of you around him, you visiting him. Don't, I beg of you. Leave him. You don't have to do this.

I am the only one who does. Herr Forehead, Kristoph is the only one left I can trust, the only one left to tell me (that I am worthless) the truth. He says that he is the only one who will _ever_ tell me the full truth, the only one who isn't afraid of me.

I cannot disagree.

When you are a prodigy and a celebrity, Herr Forehead, you become used to lies in your face. You start to realize the difference, understand what is honesty and what is not. I suppose that may be why I value the truth so much, why it _means_ so much to me.

Kristoph is my family. Who is there left to trust but him?

You don't think that he is trustworthy, do you, Herr Forehead? I don't think he is, either, but one does not need to be trustworthy to be _trusted_. He's killed two, yes, but he has never lied to me. I was simply too stupid to ask. I was simply too stupid to suspect.

I am simply too stupid.

I ask you, Herr Forehead, if not him, then who is there left to trust? Daryan is a murderer, Kristoph is a murderer, my band is gone and you…

I haven't seen you for weeks.

I hear that you are happy. You have a family now. You do not need me. You do not need my problems, my stupidity infringing on your happiness.

I am sorry for even pretending that you might see this. No doubt you hate me.

Klavier

(X)

Dear Klavier,

I know that this is probably confusing you. Well, not _you_ you. The fake you in my head. The you that I'm imagining reading these letters.

…I'll just move on.

I've been hinting at a lot of stuff in my letters, and I've never quite been able to come out and say it. I guess it's kind of hard? To think it, I mean. To accept it. Because you… you didn't seem like my type. At all. At first, you seemed rich and flaunting, egotistical and close-minded. But you're…

Not.

At _all_.

You're rich, but reasonable. You seem flaunting, but it's all an act. You're not exactly humble, but you're not _egotistical._ And you're far from close-minded; you're able to believe that your family, your _life_ is wrong.

You're… _perfect._

I mean, not technically, but I love everything about you. I love your strengths as much as your weaknesses, because every part of you is perfect in my eyes. I don't love that you're in pain or feeling bad or anything! But I want to help. Because I love…

Because I love you.

There, I said it. Wrote it.

I love you, Klavier Gavin.

I think I've loved you for awhile, actually.

I mean, I had feelings for you ever since I met you, ever since I saw you just outside of People Park. Who wouldn't? Between your eyes and your smile and _you,_ there's too much. It's no wonder you're world famous. You're just glorious.

I had a crush on you then, yeah, but I _really_ fell in love at the Misham Trial. You remember it, right? You must.

There was that one moment in particular, a single second where you looked lost. It was like time slowed down, Klavier. Your face went blank, you were shaking. You didn't hide it then, you _couldn't_ hide the way your face screwed up. It looked like you were literally in pain, Klavier. Like your insides were twisting. All I could think about was the _darkness_ you mentioned earlier, in some poetic comment about the case. I knew exactly what you were talking about, in that moment. I could _see_ the darkness in you, and I could only think one thing then- that I had to _save_ you, that I had to pull it out of you.

Kristoph was pressing you, and you were cracking. You were brave, but it wasn't enough. It looked like we were done for, but I didn't even care about the case anymore. You were what I cared about; Klavier, and I had to talk to you. I yelled something vaguely inspirational, something about remembering what you stood for. You laughed. Said you could _never_ forget. Said that you _never_ even could.

I still remember the way you looked at me, straight on with your eyes locked onto mine. All I could see then was blue, and it was the only thing that mattered. You looked _sad,_ and that was the first time I had seen the emotion on your face. There was gratitude in it, though, and that's when you stood up again. That's when you struck back.

That moment? That was when we won. It didn't matter what happened then, what bullshit Kristoph pulled. We'd _won,_ Klavier, and that was all I could feel.

Except… I'm not sure that the feeling was victory. I think it was something else, Klavier. It was too intoxicating to be victory, too thrilling and intense.

I fell in love, Klavier.

I love you.

And I mean, I know that _you_ don't care about me, but y'know what? It feels good to say it, to get it off my chest.

Even if it is just to this stupid piece of paper that you'll never see.

With love,

Your Herr Forehead

(X)

Dear Apollo,

I told you once that I strive to be a simple man. There is nothing I want more than to be than honest, easy to understand and _real._

I understand that I haven't lived up to this.

I have decided that I have to stop beating about the bush, take charge and become a better man. I want to be someone who _actually_ values the truth, Apollo. I must take that first step _sometime,_ and I suppose that now is as good a time as any.

My feelings for you… they are more than I thought. I have realized what they are, though, and come to terms with them.

I will be honest.

I love you, Apollo Justice.

I love everything about you- your _passion_ and drive, your expressions that make my heart ache, and that shine in your eyes when you've found a contradiction. I only wish I could see you again, that I could experience _you_ again.

I can't though, because you're _too good,_ because you deserve better than me. You deserve better than anything I could _ever_ give you. Never accept anything less than the best, Apollo, because you _are_ the best- and that's exactly what you deserve back. You are perfect, and I love you.

For this, I am sorry. I am sorry that I can't be everything that you deserve, and I am sorry for needing you.

I am sorry for loving you.

(With love,)

Your Klavier

(X)

Klavier tries in vain to concentrate on the friction, the familiar scratches of his pencil on paper. It's grounding, concrete, _real_ when his fingers bend around the pencil and ache from use. Klavier's trying to think of anything else while he's signing his name, while he's folding the letter, but there's only one thing on his mind.

The truth.

He _loves_ Apollo.

Klavier reaches for the envelope nearby, positioned neatly on his desk. It's been sitting there the whole time, a subtle reminder that Klavier's _actually sending them today._ Klavier had decided that he was going through with this long before he wrote this final letter, keeping the envelope near as a promise.

He's not turning back now.

He promised himself, promised _Apollo._

It's too deceptively easy to slip the letters into the envelope, to seal it and turn it over. It's too simple for how _terrifying_ this really is, how the thought of sending this to Apollo makes Klavier's heart race faster than it ever has before.

Klavier's hands shake, quivering as he writes the address. He's never felt this nervous, this strange in his own body. It's deafeningly silent all around; and the air is thick and heavy with anticipation. It's like Klavier is underwater with how his chest is constricting, with how hard it is to breathe.

All Klavier can hear is his own breathing, ragged and unsteady.

The truth.

Apollo has to know.

(X)

The letters aren't working.

Apollo groans, sinking down onto his desk. His head clunks against the wood, making an uncomfortably loud banging sound. It stings a little, but it isn't like Apollo cares. He's staring straight ahead, letting everything shift out of focus.

This isn't working, _nothing_ is.

Well, that's not _entirely_ true. Writing the letters _was_ therapeutic at first. Apollo had to admit; he liked the motion of it. He liked using the pencil, scrawling out thoughts that had only ever existed in the safety of his head. There was something about seeing it all written out, real and organized and _tangible._ It was easy with the paper, easy to cross out words when it got _too_ personal and easy to pretend like he had a fraction of a chance with Klavier Gavin.

It didn't take long for it to get _too_ real, though. Every word, every _letter_ was more honest. Apollo was laying out his heart, giving up everything he was to a fucking piece of paper. The exercise only went deeper from there, drowning Apollo in his feelings until he realized it.

Until Apollo finally wrote it, heart beating fast and back covered in a cold sweat.

 _I love you, Klavier Gavin._

He doesn't know why it feels so scary to admit. Apollo can't remember feeling this way about _anyone,_ and yet with Klavier, it's like a reflex. The cheesy words, the way his heart flutters at song lyrics- it's all natural, and Apollo doesn't even have to think.

It's _easy_ to love Klavier.

But ever since Apollo realized it, ever since he's written the last letter, he's gotten restless. He can't help but feel like he's accomplished something, like he's climbed the mental equivalent of Mount Everest. Yes, he loves Klavier Gavin. Yes, he's fine with it.

But… nothing has _changed_. Outside of Apollo's head, the world is the exact same it's always been. Apollo might know that he loves Klavier, but no one else does. The world might _feel_ different now, but frustratingly enough, it's the exact same world it's always been.

Apollo groans, closing his eyes when his head begins to spin. This is all too much. Thinking about everything that happened lately, analyzing everything he's ever thought or felt- it's _exhausting,_ trying him in the most basic way.

It's different, writing down everything he thinks. It's different when he has to justify it, explain things that can't be explained.

How does one even put love into words?

 _Ugh._

Apollo stands up from his desk, stretching his arm over his shoulders. He knows that he can't answer that question, and he's not even going to try to. He _knows_ that he's not going to accomplish anything by driving himself nuts here. Apollo's probably overthinking this, anyways. What is it that Mr. Wright always says? Find a new angle? Yeah, Apollo needs to clear his head, think this through.

Apollo takes a deep breath, realizing that his lungs are itching. Yeah, he needs some fresh air. A change of scenery will probably do him good, anyways.

Apollo makes his way to his front door, stepping outside with another deep breath. Oh yeah, this is much better. The night air is warm, dry and musky as it rolls over him. It feels nice, feels _real._

Apollo tilts his head back, taking a lazy glance around. Everything's the same as usual, almost depressingly so. The world hasn't changed, after all. Apollo's epiphany really was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Wait. Apollo squints, zeroing in on his mailbox. Something is different.

Oh, the flag on his mailbox is up. He has mail. Joy.

Apollo suppresses a sigh. Taxes, probably. He doesn't get much mail. It's all taxes and ads, never anything interesting.

Well, it's not like he has anything better to do. Apollo walks over and opens the mailbox, wincing at the screech of the flap. Mental reminder: he needs to fix that.

He grabs the mail and draws it out, a jumbled pile of envelopes. Nothing outside of his expectations. There's a magazine, a couple of ads, and-

Apollo squints. Huh. An envelope. It's incredibly thick, almost heavy, sagging and stuffed with what feels like paper. It's certainly weird; Apollo's never gotten a personal letter before, being a lonely orphan and all.

There's a first time for everything, Apollo supposes. He tears open the envelope, finding a thick stack of paper tucked inside.

He picks out the first sheet, scanning the- is that handwritten?- text, cramped and covering the paper. _Dear Herr Forehead,_ it begins, and Apollo's heart skips a beat. He knows who this is from.

Apollo doesn't even bother going inside, balancing the other mail on top of the mailbox. He needs to devote his full attention to the letters in his hands.

He starts to read.

(X)

"Klavier!"

Apollo knocks again. His fist is starting to ache, knuckles sore from banging into wood, but it doesn't matter. He _has_ to see Klavier.

Apollo doesn't know what time it is, only that it's late. The sky darkened hours ago, somewhere around when he was reading letter number 5. They're all Apollo can think about, the words are all he can _feel._ They're swirling around him like a tornado, pushed to the forefront of his mind and taking over all of his thoughts.

His throat is still choked, slick with tears Apollo never cried. His heart is pounding in his chest; so loud it's rippling all over his body. His blood has been rushing, deafening in his head since he read the first word.

It's- _weird,_ in a way. Apollo never thought _anyone_ would see him as remarkable; much less spare him a second glance. Reading letters full of someone who _loves_ Apollo… it was otherworldly. Apollo still doesn't think he's worthy of any of it, but…

He loves Klavier. He admitted it to himself, and if Klavier loves Apollo back-

" _Klavier!_ " Apollo yells, a bit louder this time.

No response.

 _Maybe he isn't home_ , the back of Apollo's mind suggests. _Maybe you're doing this all for nothing, and maybe he'll never hear you._

Apollo shakes the thought away. No. Come _on,_ the guy's on leave! He _has_ to be home.

 _Then he's ignoring you._ The voice supplies. _Even better! The silence here is intentional._

Apollo grits his teeth, lets his brow furrow. No, that can't be true. Klavier can't be ignoring him.

Well, it doesn't matter either way. Apollo's not leaving until he sees Klavier, and if he makes a racket and upsets half the neighborhood in the process, so be it.

"KLA-"

The door's gone.

All of a sudden Apollo's fist is rapping on air, and he freezes in place, yell dying in his throat. The door's swung all the way open.

Klavier's standing right in front of Apollo.

"-vier." Apollo finishes, letting his voice trail off. He swallows, trying to find his voice again.

Everything feels different, all of a sudden. It's different, now that Apollo's face to face with Klavier. Apollo can feel his thoughts all ebbing away; feel his plans and script fly out of the window.

Like it always does, the world dissolves around Apollo when he meets Klavier's eyes.

All Apollo can think is that it's the first time he's seen Klavier look this _worn_. His hair is frizzed and unbrushed, hanging down on his shoulders like a shawl. His skin is a bit paler than usual, and his lean figure looks almost gaunt. There are tired lines around his eyes, and the usual shine in them is gone.

Klavier looks _tired_.

Klavier blinks at the sight of Apollo, confused. "Ap- Herr Justice? What are you doing here?"

"Uh…" Apollo's mind goes blank. His grip tightens on the papers he's holding. Absentmindedly, he hopes that they look like court materials. Maybe Klavier will be more receptive if he thinks this is about work.

"I wanted to see you," Apollo manages. It's technically the truth, anyways.

Recognition darts around Klavier's face, like he's remembered something important. He takes a deep, labored inhale.

Klavier closes his eyes, looking pained. "Is this about-?"

"Um." Apollo says. He racks his brain, but it's no use. There's only one thing Klavier could be talking about, and Apollo knows it. "Yeah."

It's like the word has punctured Klavier, like the man is deflating. Klavier sighs, and his shoulders droop. He looks more haggard now.

He takes a breath and makes like he's about to open his mouth, Apollo's mind races into overdrive, nearly panicking. Apollo knows that Klavier's about to say something, but he _can't._ Klavier can't apologize for this again. That _can't_ happen.

Apollo needs to do something _quick._

"Here!" Apollo manages to sputter; shoving his stack of paper in Klavier's arms with what he hopes is enough force to distract him.

Well, maybe with too much force, because Klavier's nearly shunted back, eyes shot wide open. He's caught off guard, jumping a little.

"Read them." Apollo says quickly, before Klavier can recover enough to say anything.

Klavier seems surprised by the order from Apollo, blinking mutely. He complies almost automatically, looking down at the papers in his hands.

It's completely silent then, and they stand there like time itself has stopped. All Apollo can hear is his heartbeat in his head. It's echoing like a gong, pounding like a headache. Apollo's thoughts are going a million miles a minute, and his palms are damp with sweat. It's all too much, too much to think of _Klavier_ reading Apollo's innermost thoughts.

Apollo tries to distract himself, tries to study Klavier's face and gauge what he finds. Klavier's expression is stony, but controlled, like he's making a conscious effort to keep it neutral. It's oddly blank, for how labored it looks.

Klavier reads a few letters in the horrible stillness, and his face begins to change. His brow relaxes and his jaw slackens, and he begins to let go of the tight look on his face. He almost looks wistful now, with something beginning to twitch at his lips.

It goes on for what feels like two eternities, as Klavier reads every word. Apollo can feel himself teetering on the edge, nearly ready to collapse. Stress has him in a tight grip, and he's burning to be let go, even if he _is_ terrified of Klavier's reaction.

There's a sudden choking sound from Klavier, and Apollo's eyes lock onto him in an instant.

Klavier's hand flies to his mouth, and he blinks back- are those _tears?_

Klavier finally looks up, eyes shining and wet. His voice quivers, shaking. "A-Apollo…"

"I-" Apollo rubs the back of his neck, blinking nervously. Before he can stop himself, part of his forgotten script makes it out of his mouth. "I wrote them before I got yours. I guess we got the same advice, huh?"

"You…" Klavier stares at Apollo, taking a shaky breath. "You… you think you love me."

"I _know_ I do, Klavier." Apollo counters immediately, dropping his arm. Shit, that sounds a bit pushy. Apollo tries for a smile.

"Apollo, I- I'm _sorry,_ " Klavier gasps, sounding like he's out of breath. His head bends down so he's facing the ground, and he crumples over.

"You don't have to be." Apollo raises a shaky hand as though he's going to cup Klavier's cheek, but thinks better of it and settles for touching Klavier's hand. "I love you, too."

"N-nein, you've _seen_ me, Apollo." Klavier shakes his head, trembling, making as though he's going to step back. "I- I don't want to hurt you anymore- you're far too good for me. _Far_ too good."

"No. No matter what Kristoph may say, you're not worthless." Apollo says firmly. He's actually able to raise his hand to Klavier's cheek this time, resting it there. "You're brilliant, and kind, and ethical, and you're the strongest person I've ever known."

Apollo takes a deep breath. "You may not believe me, but I can't see why. I don't know how _anyone_ could think of you as anything but perfect. I love you, Klavier Gavin."

At that, Apollo throws his arms around Klavier, linking them around his neck and pressing their bodies together. Klavier makes a noise of surprise, and the letters are knocked from his arms. They scatter, words falling, tossed to the side without a second thought.

Apollo reaches up, kissing Klavier. His hands scramble for the back of Klavier's head, pulling Klavier closer towards him. Apollo _needs_ it; he _needs_ Klavier's lips on his.

There's a terrible split second as Klavier stands frozen, caught off guard- but he's sparked to life in an instant, arms at Apollo's back dragging him closer, closer. Klavier kisses Apollo back, kisses Apollo like he needs him to breathe.

Gasped breaths intermingle, arms pull- it's a battle to get as close as possible, to feel as much of the other as possible. It's breathless and urgent, _needing._ It's the first time Apollo's really touched someone since the Misham Trial, and he's only realizing now how starved he is. Being in Klavier's arms makes him feel the most secure he's ever been.

"Klavier," Apollo simply whispers into the man's lips, and it's frighteningly truthful- that's all he can think, that's all that's going through his mind right now. Klavier, Klavier Gavin, honest, tall, kind, blonde and brilliant and _kissing Apollo back._

Klavier laughs weakly, and Apollo can feel Klavier's breath on his lips- warm, sweet-smelling. "Do… do you wish to continue this inside?"

"Y-yeah," Apollo gasps, resting his forehead against Klavier's. "Yeah, I'd like that. A lot."

Klavier reaches back and takes the arm Apollo's linked around his neck, trailing his fingers down to link their hands together. It's silent when Klavier leads Apollo inside, wordless, because anything he could say would be extraneous. His grin says it all.

The door shuts behind them, and no one remembers the strewn letters until much later.

* * *

 **casually writes 10 million oneshots instead of updating multichapters**


End file.
